DENISE DUHAMEL
Baby Onion
I am trying to explain to Jenny’s in-laws
that Nick and I are sharing a rented house with two roommates—
Ginger and Barbara. We are in Auvillar,
in southern France, at a small café avec dogs
and religious pilgrims, with their khaki shorts
and walking sticks, making their way
to San Jacques de Compostelle in Spain.
Jenny is passing through on a car trip with her husband’s parents
who fold out a map, tracing their fingers
from village to village, showing us their route:
Moissac, Agen, Pinel, Nadillac, Saint-Sulpice, Le Bourg.
Jenny’s husband, their son, is back in Florida
because he has to work. I am DeneeZe, and Nick is NeeK.
They know other Barbaras in France but can’t imagine
a person named Ginger, or Gingembre.
Do we mean the plant—ginger tea?
They look to Nick and ask: isn’t ginger used
a lot in Asian cooking? Jenny is busy translating
back and forth. What about Ginger Rogers,
I ask? They know Fred Astaire but draw a blank
at his dancing partner’s name. I ask if Gilligan’s Island
made it to France, but I can tell I am getting
them more confused. It’s a long shot but I try
The Spice Girls. Geri Halliwell a.k.a. Ginger Spice?
Je ne comprends pas. Jenny’s in-laws say a lot of young people
in France are naming their babies crazy names these days
and they conclude Ginger’s parents were hippies.
Nick says that Jenny should name her first baby Onion,
and the mother-in-law smiles a brave smile, saying,
well, that it is her choice, but a saint’s name
would be very nice. Her father-in-law is a good sport.
If it’s a boy, what about Cucumber? Concombre Pierre,
he suggests, a good solid name. Ah, a joke—Jenny’s mother-
in-law is relieved, knowing her French son has married
the right American girl. She rocks an imaginary enfant
in her arms: Calme, calme, mon petit oignon.
